


Of Soldiers, Doctors and Owls

by Zaberwood



Category: Animamundi Dark Alchemist
Genre: Denial, Doctor/Patient, Drunken Confessions, First Time, M/M, Male Friendship, Relationship Advice, Religion, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaberwood/pseuds/Zaberwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon his monthly medical examination, Mikhail finds himself reacting to the good doctor's touch in a very unpleasant way. A secret to be kept from God, a confession to make to another man...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Such a bother, Mikhail thought with a pouting face, hands on his hips as he heard the door creak open. Only one could be so insolent as to barge in without knocking - the one who had been prancing in and out of his door for two decades almost. Sometimes the captain truly wondered what had made him think of Georik Zaberisk as his best friend; at times he remembered, particularly when half unconscious and positively wasted, whining about the sorrows of life against said friend's bony shoulder. Alas, the man was now the palace doctor and trod the same glorious premises as the captain did; he came in with a questioning excuse of a smile, carrying his satchel to fulfil his duties.

"About time, Georik. I'm fine, so let's get this over and done with so you can move your ugly mug back to examining the noble thunder mugs." He laughed at the thought, yet with a tinge of spite in his chuckle; he never quite forgave the outrage that was his friend's turning from the sword to the scalpel. Wasted talent and valour was a sin, however noble the cause of 'saving lives' - which usually was not the case inside the palace walls, from where the sick and cripple were sent to the countryside to recover away from the king's eyes.

Unbuttoning his jacket, Mikhail turned his back on the raven-haired physician and felt a strange red of emotion surge on his face. It was no longer the innocent play of doctor the man used to involve him in as children; his body now told countless stories, some of them less glorious. He was a trained soldier; he knew where the body was weak when struck with a sword, but Georik knew there was more to it. Exposed, he was vulnerable - exposed, he was shamed, however familiar and nonchalant the hands and eyes inspecting it were. Well, at least he had God to thank for not letting this man be that filthy foreigner, Bruno Glening, instead.

The captain could hear Georik sighing behind his back as he hopped onto his bunk and lay down for the examination. Taking his sweet time, the 'good doctor' put on his reading glasses and chose some rage-inducing instruments from his satchel before he pulled himself a chair next to his friend. "Sounds like you want to talk about the contents of yours, Mikhail. Or maybe Despanie knows more, since you seem to be spending more and more time there," he remarked as the cold steel of his stethoscope slid insidiously on the other's chest. Mikhail winced from the mixed sensation of such ice and the firm warmth of his friend's hand, sleeping still in the cadence of his breath as Georik leaned closer to listen to his heartbeat. His dark hair pooled down on bare skin, their silky tickle making the captain's muscles twitch. It was as if Mikhail's heart was pounding faster as a mere response, like an useless attempt to prove his body was in top condition.

Unable to stand the silence, he grunted his disapproval and shifted restlessly under Georik's weight. "To think some get paid for such useless things," he grumbled to the roof far above him as the heinous instrument gave way to the doctor's hands moving downwards to palpate his midriff. His touch was firm and knowing, as expected of a man mastering both sword and scalpel... yet this new side of him was what made Mikhail uneasy. Those were not the hands that used to rudely punch him in jest or grind the bone out of him in a sweaty match of arm-wrestling.

Georik did not even raise his head for a retort, yet a smile tinted his lips upon his answer. "How about those who put on their uniform only to sit in their office all day, shouting orders and indulging in expensive meals? You, my friend, are gaining weight." His words were mellow in comparison to his sharp poke at the soft spot below Mikhail's navel; like a heated iron sunk into his flesh, they melted into him, sending painful sparks to every extent of his nerves. Yet the fiend would not stop there and examine his handiwork - a flustered, dry-mouthed captain, who already was one inch short of grabbing him by the collar and pushing him away - but rather ignore the upcoming retort and move downwards, about to excuse himself at the waistline of the viscount's breeches.

It was well out of Mikhail's comfort zone, and his irritation spiked alongside with his heart rate and twitching muscles. He recoiled, promptly slapping away the doctor's hand and half sitting up. "What did you say? This here is pure muscle. Now get off me, or it'll be my sword all touchy-feely on you, damn skinny quack!" he nearly growled, his abdomen tense and burning from the lingering palpation. He did not understand it - he was the toughest of tough, insensitive to a nearly callous degree, and his best friend's ages-familiar hands felt intolerably... intolerable? Even if Georik was nettling his nerves on purpose, he should not react like this.

"Skinny I might be, but a quack? That's very rude of you. Relax, Mikhail, and let me finish my work," came the absent answer, served with the quirk of an eyebrow and a self-sufficient little chortle. Never mind the stubborn and difficult position of his patient, Georik resumed his job - with no forewarning, his flat palm slid underneath the captain's waistline and slowly followed the path paved by well-defined bones under white, partly bruised skin.

What was a flickering flame of a candle was now speedily maturing into a smouldering bonfire by each kneading motion, each pondering hum and each tendril of silk waltzing on his bare skin. Was it energy or devilry flowing from the healer's hands, he did not know; his mind was absent, taken over and hoisted on the burgeoning hardness between his thighs.

The shock of a distant, forbidden experience rendered him immobile for a second - the second during which he could only watch the doctor's hand move calmly and slowly, far circling his member in silken blindfold. Unbearable, noble fingers that never saw a day's work on a soldier's skin - their softness was the fuel to his fire, and the danger instinctively shook his body out of its aroused stupor.

Mortified and flustered, his ragged body now hosted a single rational thought - this fiend would not stay and torture him more, to see his utter degradation. He stood up abruptly, heaving violently with each raging stride towards his clothes and a safe corner behind his desk. "I don't have time for this, and neither should you. I'll report to you if I'm on the verge of dying. Now didn't you have some Glening boots to lick still?" Without a word of goodbye, he started to dress, his back turned on the man whom he heard quickly collect his belongings and leave with a demonstative thud.

The physician was gone, and all Mikhail could do was collect the last of his poise and curse silently, hands tightly clenched in shaking fists. The sweltering ache under his belt remained, mocking him even in the shroud of thick white fabric. His body would soon forget - it had to - but the shame had stained his mind and heart; his pride and purity, his control of the sinner that he was - all that he had given to God for His guidance. He could not face his Lord with this burden... his own failure in the guise of Georik Zaberisk's touch.

His friend's dank voice and his hideously wolflike face still haunted his mind, his red cheeks and moist temples; it was a horrid, nightmarish thought he could not confess having. Yet he could not keep this to himself; alone with his thoughts, he could not redeem himself and atone for his weakness. A trusted man was needed... and the cold breeze of placebo relief washed over his shocked body at a sudden glance at his calendar.

Tonight, he was to dine with St. Germant at his place - an occasion he always cherished, from his heartfelt greeting to the late merry hours before their personal liquid nightfall. St. Germant was sweet and sincere - gullible, that is - and Mikhail had a hope to speak candidly to this man. If not... well, the man would surely pour him a glass or two - or twenty-two - to make him forget.


	2. Chapter 2

It was well past the time appointed when Mikhail had finally dragged his feet to the entrance of the Cassel mansion. Pleasantly lighted windows shone in the falling darkness, much like those of the Rocking Boat Tavern where the captain had drifted straight after work, out of sheer habit. A few pints and the obligatory few drinking songs with his white fellowship had brought a steady little sway in his walk and a growling hunger into his stomach. Well, if old signs were to be trusted, the delicious aroma wafting from the open kitchen window meant that Franz the butler had crafted something more than the grub the captain usually stuffed his face with.

With a rough rap at the door, Mikhail announced his arrival, pacing restlessly between the two round boxwood plants on each side of the front door. When the door soon creaked open, served with the placid, bespectacled face of St. Germant's butler, he stopped in his tracks for a salute, still teetering slightly. "Good evening, Master Ramphet. My master has been waiting for you," Franz greeted him in turn, bowing deeply and sparing himself the trouble of ushering the visitor in, for Mikhail was one to strut his way well before he was actually permitted.

What greeted him inside was not a feast prepared, with this friend anxiously waiting with open arms, but rather a little creature whose seemingly motionless head lay dishevelled over a pile of books and what looked like maquettes for his bizarre inventions. As if he had brought his work home with him – yet with said work being sprawled all over the sofa and underneath St. Germant's small body, Mikhail was sure they were all about his strange passions and pastimes and not the machines of war he had been breeding.

However sweet the sight of his friend smiling in his sleep was, it was not what Mikhail had come for. "Waiting, huh? Rise and shine, man!" he exclaimed with a forceful slap on the back of his little Sleeping Beauty, developing a smug grin as the inventor slowly woke from his sleep. It took St. Germant no more than the length of a satisfied yawn to notice whose hulking figure stood before him and bolt up immediately, muttering to himself and fussing around to the extent of crashing into the armrest and falling down again, all to Mikhail's great amusement.

"Ah! I'm so sorry, Mikhail! I was so exhausted after work, I took a little nap and... Oh, now look at me!" He much resembled a little bird peeking out of its nest, ruffled and blushed with big bright eyes. Such an innocent little thing, following his dream and smiling to the world as if there was not a single worry in the world… The captain could never afford a luxury such as a careless nap in the middle of the day; he actually  _worked_  hard for his money and his country, not fannying around like the little Royal Engineer. Then again, who could resist the good nature and sweet face of Germant Cassel that so well worked against his little flaws?

He gave a gruff laughter and a rough tousle of St. Germant's hair, then slumped into the chair the butler had pulled for him and loosened up his starched collar. The table before him soon turned into a cornucopia of sweet treats and wine, served from some rather queer dishes when the family's expensive china ran out, and the host himself was soon back to his usual perky self as he joined his guest at the table. In his very fashion, the inventor dismissed his butler and took the wine in his own hands, pouring Mikhail a glass and proposing a toast to friendship and success.

Thanking his God for such a dear and generous friend, the captain gladly drained every splash of wine that magically appeared after the previous one, devouring what was brought onto his platter as he drifted deeper in a pleasant conversation full of jest and merriment. As always, St. Germant was enraptured by his newest invention: this time, he ranted with stars in his eyes and raspberry jam dribbling down his chin, it was a little mechanical owl that could apparently survey and record its surroundings. None of what he explained of the intricate mechanics employed within such a small bird made sense to Mikhail, who would shrug off the brilliant idea with a toast and a reminder of how good of a work his knights were doing so that such devices would be absolutely unnecessary for the security of Kamazene.

It was not until the mention of their mutual friend – one to whom a giggling St. Germant would carelessly refer - that a tiny bell rang inside Mikhail's head, reminding him of the shameful events prior to the joyous reunion. Suddenly blanched, immediately before a rich flush would adorn his cheeks, he stared numbly at the bit of cake skewered on his dessert fork, unable to prevent his thumbs from shaking and twiddling the poor piece of silverware.

"Is something wrong, Mikhail?" Intoxicated, St. Germant seemed to exhibit some supernatural powers of perception; his smaller hand clasped the captain's over the table, the moist gleam of worry darkening his eyes into a deep brown. It merely added to the thick, dry feel of Mikhail's tongue that was stuck in his throat, unable to form coherent sentences to express his agony; feet thumping nervously underneath the table, he groaned, much in the same fashion he sometimes did when facing the morning-after sight of himself in the looking-glass.

"St. Germant. Can I ask you something? A man-to-man thing," he ventured, nearly choking in his words in the lack of a better expression, but from his friend's little sound of surprise and the hand that immediately rose to adjust his big round glasses, Mikhail knew he had found the confidant he needed. Those large, caramel-coloured eyes looked at him, looked straight through the little dignity he wanted to keep, and the captain suddenly found something very interesting in the Cassel family blazon half visible from underneath his unfinished crumpet.

"You know how sometimes a man just gets... excited for no reason and... God, I can't take this!" It started so promisingly, yet he would still rather swallow his words than his pride in the improvised inquisition. He could not bring himself to raise his word against Georik Zaberisk, the man both he and his friend loved since their years in the Royal Academy, let alone confess that it was  _him_ behind the sinful sensation in his loins.

St. Germant, however, was seemingly unable to stifle the scientist in him upon the first clues. "Oh? Is that why you look so uncomfortable here... with me?" he nearly whispered his hypothesis, thoroughly blushed and barely holding back a disbelieving snicker. His eyes, narrowing and widened in turn, seemed unable to choose between the captain's eyes and the object of his piqued interest until a sharp kick under the table brought him back to the grave matter.

"No, you idiot! It just... happened today, in the palace, out of the blue. I don't know what I did wrong." Mikhail buried his face in his palms, a mass of golden ringlets sprawling out on the table and risking the taint of black tea. He had never felt so low, so filthy before another, especially when said another happened to be a man who had already seen the full spectrum of his bad sides. Not this one – it was a crime far too severe to mention, a private matter one should never feel the need to share. He should be past the folly and vigour of youth-

"Listen, Mikhail. It's natural, and nature takes care of its own... And, if not, one must offer nature a helping hand, so to say." Clearing his throat, St. Germant brought his friend's attention back to him - and to his struggle to keep his hands from a rather vulgar, demonstrative gesture meant for the simpler of minds.

"Y-you mean, you too? Aren't you a man to be married?" Mikhail gaped at the little man, the man in whose dainty finger he saw the golden glitter of an engagement ring – a union yet to be fulfilled whose  _consummation_  brought unbidden thoughts into Mikhail's mind. St. Germant was engaged to that demon's sister, Lillith, a sweet girl of thirteen; yet how could he remain pure when faced with the temptation of his own mind, his own touch? What could he be thinking? Certainly those were profane acts that would lead him to the worst, the desecration of the holy matrimony in a horrible way or another; shocked, the captain wanted nothing more than an answer before his fists would pummel their way through the inventor's ribcage if a girl's innocence was his to defend.

"Aye, I am. I do remain faithful to my sweet Lillith, yet sometimes a man just has to unwind his... frustrations. You couldn't be asking for details, Mikhail!" Obviously appalled from his friend's horrible accusation, the inventor shook his head, and the painful-looking bite of his lip betrayed his most misplaced sense of humour in the most demeaning situation. Frustrations - what could St. Germant possibly know of those, even if he now insisted otherwise, comforting and cajoling him into disregarding the  _little_  matter entirely? Easy for him to say; it was not him that despicable bastard of a friend had bewitched into that debasing, depraved state!

"This is no laughing matter! I wouldn't give a damn if Georik hadn't been there. He was checking me up and I told him I was in a hurry, but he insisted on seeing me and then,  _boing_!" Humiliation was quickly caving in to choler as Mikhail finally managed to blurt it all out, emphasized with a clumsily pompous gesture. Panting, he averted his eyes, drowning the vile taste in his mouth with a shot of brandy as he heard the pained sigh of no return from his friend's lips.

"Of all people, you were with Georik and now you're making such a fuss? You two grew up together! What is there to be embarrassed about in front of your best friend, a  _doctor_? Trust me, Mikhail, he has seen everything and certainly is better at explaining your physiology than I am." It was not often that out of the two, St. Germant was the one to sermon the other, and from the sheer stark realisation, the empty carafe earned an enraged glower from Mikhail. His desire for a numbing encore came to a halt, though, and the inventor's hand felt surprisingly powerful around his wrist.

"I could stand him making fun of it, but not the thought him and... The Lord Almighty knows I host no unnatural desires for other men!" he exclaimed, the sinful heat of his denied transgression rising to his cheeks and enkindling the emerald green of his eyes. Good heavens, no, he was a man of the Word – St. Germant knew it and believed him, didn't he? Had he not known this man long enough to make it perfectly clear? Then why was he looking at him like that?

"No one was implying the contrary, Mikhail." St. Germant looked positively pained; no longer sweet and supportive, his words were suddenly stern, certainly with an undertone of disgust as his message finally crashed through. Justification before accusation – so  _he_  was guilty after all, guilty of succumbing to demons of his mind as they touched his flesh with another man's hand! It was his fault, his most grievous fault, but there was no way in hell Mikhail Ramphet would go down alone without a fight.

"That damn bastard, it's his fault! I knew he was rotten to the core, but this...!" The tasteful array of creamy teacups and silverware went clattering down from his enraged roar and unhinged crash of fists, yet not even the sound of breaking porcelain was not enough to soothe the captain's ire. He wanted Georik Zaberisk's hide, right here and now, a soul for his own condemned to Hell; it was the least he could do to alleviate his divine punishment. He would smite his own wicked, no, fight the fiend like a man on fair grounds and make him beg on his knees for forgiveness-

"Calm yourself, dear friend. You've had too much to drink, you need rest." St. Germant called out for him, desperate, climbing atop the destroyed table to hold the raving captain still with all of his little weight. Both his words and struggle spilled to waste, for it was no longer him that Mikhail saw before him; it was the enemy, the Tempter laughing at his helplessness, the debris of his virtue in flames behind him. Was St. Germant against him too?

"I need no rest but redemption! For all the love I gave to the viper in my bosom, for the sins that will send me to the fiery pit without vindication! Don't you dare take his side!" he hissed in blind rage, twisting to shake off the persistent little leech upon him; no, he had not wanted to involve a third party, yet he would not hesitate to eliminate him if he kept him from his justified retribution.

"Shush, darling. We'll think it over tomorrow, but now you are going to bed. Franz!" Petulant and demanding, St. Germant's words rang near his ear, unable to break through the demonic whispers that echoed his crimes; yet from his word came another pair of arms to support the captain as he staggered towards the dimly lit chamber that beckoned him more than the bright light of Rapture all too sudden for him.

An overwhelming fatigue washed over him in the newfound dark, pushing his head down against his friend's shoulder to bury his protests and plaints. Close to sobbing, the captain gladly let himself be seated down on something much softer than the pew of his own mind, yet he clung desperately to St. Germant's hand as it stroked his cheek and flicked a stubborn lock back in place."Everything will be fine, I swear. I will be in my study if you need something. Sweet dreams, Mikhail," the inventor whispered in the dark; his warm, sweet breath the last of him within Mikhail's grasp as he withdrew, leaving the door ajar behind him.

All alone, in a room so silent and cavernous it robbed him of the last of his racking thoughts and consciousness, Mikhail gave in to sleep, sinking back against the pile of silk pillows and embracing the fugitive solace of slumber as one would a lover.

A  _lover_... that of his bacchic dreamscape, feverish with sultry whispers and fleeting touches upon him, caressing his hair in a fashion he had never quite permitted himself to love. A lover who spoke incantations, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest – one who knew his name, a dark figure sitting by his bedside, waking him to the sedate sound of it from familiar lips.


	3. Chapter 3

In his barely namely state of wake, Mikhail felt neither quite like a patient risen from the dead nor like a sleeper redeemed from the abyss of a nightmare gazing straight into the eyes of the man who could fit either of his intoxicated scenarios.

It was Georik Zaberisk, drawn straight out of his sulphurous phantasms to the dim, rotating scope of his vision; to the side of a bed he at first did not remember falling into – or to whom it belonged. It was his tall, dark shadow cast over him, long raven hair falling like tentacles from the deep; a demon by his bedside, he first seemed, until the hideous sword-cut across his cheek proved his identity.

Fumbling for words or support, Mikhail caved in to the guise of infirm and closed his eyes again, wishing sweet slumber would claim him before either memories or the physician's words crashed through. Yet he was firmly anchored to the cruel state of a scarce consciousness as the dark fiend calling himself a friend pressed a cool palm against the captain's feverish forehead, then another to feel the pulse of his urgently heaving chest.

"What a poor shape you are in, dear Mikhail. Well, at least you passed out indoors," that dank, scornful voice of his scoffed, not at all like the sultry whispers of the incubi of his dream – yet the little the captain could discern from the sharp shadows were horns and wings like a demon's hovering above the man he had once considered a friend.

"Ah, sod off, Georik. All was fine 'til ye showed yer fugly face," he grumbled, rolling his heavy head on the colder side of the pillow, a thick mass of golden curls falling in his wake. Yet said hideous face still burned in the back of his skull, an apparition of shadows and flames of the past – sleep would not reclaim him and deliver him of the bizarre wake he now paddled in.

"You look horrible. Sit up now. I'd rather not tell the king and your knights that the captain met his sorry end by choking in his own vomit." Georik's words were half amused, half scornful; if not from memory, Mikhail knew from his friend's nonchalant manner that he had been in this state before. So what if he liked to live a little, to do what every man did every now and then – the man himself was a prude spawned from hell, and he must have enjoyed it at least a little to see people suffer to bring money in his pockets.

Yes, Georik goddamn Zaberisk must have enjoyed every accursed second of Mikhail's agony, from the grim wake-up call to the glass of water he tried to offer but ended up in shatters and splashes all over the floor. A filthy, disgusting bird of ill omen, waiting with his arms crossed over his chest: so he liked to play dumb, as he always did, but Mikhail would not yield to his vile tricks. "Tell the king all right... tell him everything, won't you, you bastard," he hissed through his teeth, trying to clench his fists for some battle spirit, yet his efforts were of no avail.

"Still mad about the check-up, I see. Surely you know I was merely jesting back then! It doesn't take much to see you are perfectly fit, but my superior insisted on a second opinion." The man rolled his striking blue eyes, his contempt towards Doctor Glening evident even through the befuddled haze of Mikhail's mind. So he did not even have the guts to stand up to his wrongful superior! That was where their ways parted: ungodly avarice over any honest aspiration to cure the ill that had made Georik abandon the sword for the scalpel and leave his friend's side.

"Though if you keep wasting your nights like this, these buttons will come flying in no time. Must I find you a wife to keep you in shape?" His tone was more matronly Mikhail quite cared for, his big hands more meddling than the muscles of his stomach could take without tensing under their touch. True, in his current state, the uniform he was now being freed of resembled a straightjacket to a painful degree… yet the loss of garments brought anything but cool relief upon his skin.

He did not want Georik to sit him up or tuck him in. Where had he gotten such a condescending attitude to begin with? That damnable creature, the dark foreigner who had tricked the young physician into abandoning everything for a mere title; yes, he was certainly the one behind Georik's demonic ability to-

_Ah._

It happened again, this time more persistent, more insidious as the doctor's hands never made it far enough from rolling down Mikhail's sleeves and adjusting the pillows he had fallen on. It was something in Georik's touch, something  _fiendish_ that tensed up his muscles and sent his blood rushing down, to the tent of enemy territory within his breeches. It must be the fatigue, something in St. Germant's sinful delicacies that he had stuffed his face with, the apocalypse afoot – anything and everything outside the grace of God that rendered him incapable of halting the hellfire of his loins.

He prayed it would stop, that Georik would leave him to his own devices – the senseless ache in his sword arm, the phantom weight and grating of his sword's handle tight in his calloused palm – no, that was not what he wanted, God forbid he succumbed to the vice of Onan!

"I don't need no wife... when you make me feel like this," he growled to himself, on the brink of hyperventilation, completely at the other's mercy amidst unspeakable and impure thoughts. All his life he had saved himself for his beloved wife to come, never even giving himself a fleeting chance of wicked desire upon a flouncing skirt or an ample bosom - even when they were practically shoved in his face day to day in the palace. Yet now  _this_ ; that he should writhe and arch from a man's touch, incapable of redeeming himself while he still had the chance...

"Oh, I'm flattered, Mikhail. I suppose I will have to take care of your needs until someone more suitable takes over." Georik scoffed, his large hands skimming down the captain's thighs as they busied themselves with removing his muddy boots. Of course he would laugh, and his laughter was that of a crippled gargoyle pissing rainwater on the gaping captain, who hissed in pain as neglected desire all but burned through the white fabric still shielding the juncture of his thighs.

"Laugh all you like, you filthy son of a bitch... After all you've done... all you've made me feel... you're not even man enough to finish me off!" Mikhail's voice broke under the weight of his irredeemable words as he clung to the worn velvet of the man's coat; unaware of his own strength or reaction until Georik's lips were mere inches away from his, breathing cool air and twisting into a tight line as his body collided with Mikhail's.

Only then did it dawn on him that Captain Mikhail Ramphet was not the only party affected by this predicament; his friend was unmistakably excited through all that foppish regalia dangling from his belts, and his azure eyes were clouded in dark thunder as he licked his dry lips to speak. "I see. Personally I have no qualms about taking advantage of you in your drunken  _and_  demented state, but certain institutions might frown upon it," he said grimly, no longer amused – perhaps not with the captain's hands around his throat and his legs pinning him down all too close for the comfort of either.

"Even the devil frowns upon you, Georik Zaberisk!" Mikhail spat at his face, in his last pitiful defence; the trail of his desperation dripping down the man's scarred cheek, he knew the cure to this despicable illness was in the hand of another. It was vile and forbidden, a sin of no parallel, but it would not be Mikhail's; the dark room around him was turning, the air hot and toxic like the hell he had entered accompanied.

_Lust_ , the herald inside his head announced as he raised a weak, balled fist; panting and trembling as the man sighed in contempt, swept his face clean and caught the captain's fist a mere hair's breadth from the bridge of his nose. The demon skewered him with his fiery stare, without words in predatory focus as the captain's last weapons were taken from him; his wrists forcibly wrung together by a vicious hand, his knees pried apart to make way for Georik and a silence he broke himself as his damned needs were tended to.

He growled with each nearly violent stroke, his back arching from the touch and his hands bucking in their surprisingly strong restraints against the headboard. He was on fire, his skin and flesh sensitive and responsive to hands that knew what they were doing, and God forbid, he was going to break.

It was Georik whom he could never forgive, yet he was the only one who was allowed to break him thus; his fingers painful and perfunctory, hastily slicked and sufficiently quick to reach deep inside and to draw no more than a broken gasp of shock. The taste of past dinner crept up to his tongue but not quite made it; yet at the same time, his insides burned for more, for a transgression even more violent, deeper and fouler so that Captain Mikhail Ramphet would die a martyr, torn up underneath the crucifix.

"Is this really what you want, Mikhail? If it is, I won't hold back now."

As abruptly as he began to – God have mercy on him –  _embrace_  the pleasure of those cold, profane fingers desecrating him, it was gone; he shuddered, gathering the shreds of his consciousness in the aftershock, looking at the man upon him only to find his darkest prayers answered. Georik's silent warning proved true with abruptly withdrawn fingers, hastily undone breeches and a mere few bruising strokes to display him in full mast before that blunt pressure against Mikhail's tender, burning flesh. He imagined it much like the hilt of his trusted sword against the flat of his palm, yet a foreign sensation; a familiar heartbeat born of fury and a dash of panic before a brief surge of pain, pushing the limits of his body and far beyond with initially slow thrusts until Mikhail could but brace himself for more and strain to meet the vicious intrusion.

In a sense, he knew this primal, masculine feeling for years; rivulets of sweat licking the contours of his straining muscles, every inch of him overdriven for bloody combat, never giving up to the enemy so close he could anticipate his every breath and heartbeat. Years back, it had been him – this man he had sparred with, fought with, passed out with – and only him to get this close, know his every weak spot and exploit that little death of better judgement as he bested Captain Mikhail Ramphet, a mere man despite himself.

In another sense, he loved it, his entire being  _craved_  for it; he moaned, unabashed by his own wanton cries of war as each thrust shook his entire body in the flames of pleasure. He must have felt what Saint Teresa of Ávila had felt in her ecstasy; her body alight by divine illumination, pierced as if by a spear over and over until pain melted into sweet caresses. Carnal sensations gave way to the divine, each jolt and earthquake intemporal, and when a guiding hand finally descended to him in the throes of his passion, he was only vaguely aware that _God_  and  _Georik_  became one as he howled his last in the promised light he had saved himself for.

* * *

Waking up to the soul-soothing sound of church bells was a foreign luxury to the captain of the Royal Guard; however, the trombones of apocalypse within his leaden head were not. The stray rays of sunlight that passed through the narrow slits that were his eyes told him that it was past the early morning; it was Sunday, from the sound of it, and he was in a strange little bed instead of the pew. With no recollection of whatever had happened or even less willpower to get up and try to make it at least before communion, Mikhail groaned and rolled over, wishing that the pillow he squashed his face in would take his miserable life right here and now-

"Good morning, sunshine." As the devil would have it, the strange pillow underneath him turned out to be the chest of his best friend, rising and falling steadily despite the deadweight bestowed on it. He felt Georik's hand in his hair, long fingers petting and stroking his tangled curls, drawing a content sigh from the captain.

"Why didn't you wake me up, you moron?" he murmured against soft skin and firm muscle, attempting to tear himself off his soft mattress and failing miserably when the civil war inside his head began anew. He must have been drinking again, but the fact alone did not give much light to why he had ended up in an unfamiliar bed and in his friend's lap. His eyes felt sore and swollen, and the bright white sight of his uniform neatly folded on a chair made them water. At least either of them had been sober enough to spare his attire of most of the damage he had yet to tally.

"Why, I tried, but you were sleeping like a baby. Here, drink this and your head will be better in no time." There was a peculiar smirk on Georik's face as he took a glass of frothy liquid and held it to the captain's dry lips, shifting gracefully to sit up and hold Mikhail up as he took a long, thirsty sip. That was not his usual self; where were his reproaches, the delight in his friend's infernal hangover whereas he himself seemed bright and reeked not of pints and gutter?

"Cut it out, Georik. You never were the caring type," he grumbled, dragging his aching legs to his chest and curling up in a miserable lumpy ball under the sheets. He felt hot and cold in turn, cold sweat and tremors worse than the usual, and the warmth Georik's body offered was more than welcome. He would hear of this later, probably more than he even deserved, but that was for the future him to deal with. All he wanted was to wither away in the absence of absolutely anything worse he could think of.

Embracing him with a long, bony arm, Georik held him fast, chuckling into the length of his neck. He smelled of roses and cologne, things that no other man could pull off and get away with it. Of course that son of a bitch had already eaten and bathed, probably using up all the hot water as he always did. "And you never were the type to beg me to take you, Mikhail," the physician retorted slowly, savouring each word that passed through the tiny border control inside Mikhail's head until they crashed through.

His memory returned to him, draining his face of the little colour it held and his mouth of the profanities he recalled uttering the night past. With sheer horror, he relived every hazy moment between dinner and damnation – his excruciating confession, the devil on his shoulder as he _begged_  and cursed and moaned, legs obscenely apart and heels stamping large bruises in familiar flesh as that man thrust into him – until he lost his voice and that of reason in the face of his untimely and inglorious demise.

He wanted to scream, to accuse him of lying and leave the battlefield before his reason had a prickly say in the matter, but the lead in his head and the throb in his temples kept him enchained. "You... you devil," he nearly sobbed, squeezing his eyes firmly shut to escape the mocking dance of the patterns in his vision. He had certainly misplaced some of Georik's words and constructed wrongful memories of his own; it would pass with a few agonizing hours, perhaps even less if he had something stronger than water to even out this horrible dysphoria.

"I did wonder, though, whether that was truly what you wanted... or  _needed._ " Georik scoffed, his large hand tracing down Mikhail's back, leaving painful chills in its wake. Enraged from the affront against his fortress of belief, the captain countered the move with a forceful push, encountering no resistance as he fell flat on top of his friend, a familiar rush of adrenaline overshadowing slight nausea as he pinned the man down by his broad shoulders with a glower at those cold blue eyes.

It was certainly an interesting perspective, and way too tempting to beat Georik into a bloody pulp, pummel some sense into that unsightly face and drag him up onto his feet for another round. He would rather die a noble murderer than victim to a demon's guile and his own ebbed strength of will, but as things were, he had little say in the matter as Georik's hands so fondly smoothed down his messy hair and worked their way down sensitive length of his neck.

"Seems like I made the right decision, though, given the way you professed your love so fervently last night," he whispered, and before Mikhail's lips even parted for an objection, he found them gently pried open by the doctor's shameless mouth. He tasted fresh, of mint and salt, and to Mikhail's ire, he was too damned good to push away. Deep, demanding and earnest, his tongue caught the other, his lips devoured those less experienced, and the captain found himself in rather... extenuating circumstances.

The man he knew would not have done that to another man whose breath probably reeked of a slaughterhouse doused in spirits and whose blanched face quivered as if he was about to cast last night's menu on him; so perhaps it was a dream after all, one brought to him by His Majesty King Alcohol and some seed of wicked thought that beckoned a demon to wreck his slumber thus.

It was too early in the morning for remorse – the penitent dishonest and the confessor out of reach – and Mikhail moaned into the breathtaking, dizzying kiss, the stiffness of his limbs a thing of the past as he let himself go in the warm embrace. If this was the kiss of Judas, he knew not which role he was cast; he never knew with Georik Zaberisk, his best friend and nemesis, the only man with a score unsettled.

"Good morning, Georik, Mikhail! I thought you two would be starving by now, so I had Franz prepare something for you!"

Surprise pulled Mikhail up like a marionette, tearing his eyes open and fixing them into the direction of familiar chatter. Beaming, St. Germant emerged from the shadow and flounced through the room, carrying a steaming tray with him; moving with such lilt and light trips that the captain's eyes could not follow but to return to Georik, the deceitfully placid ocean of his eyes and the ominous tug at the corner of his lips cruelly deprived of their equals.

"Y-you... You knew," Mikhail nearly whispered, his gravelly charge hitting the floor instead of St. Germant's ears. Things would just have taken a turn in the absurd if that was not  _his_  bespectacled friend to the core; why, it was not enough to be entrusted with a man's dire secret, but that curious little bugger just  _had_  to see him squirm in shame tenfold in the well-nigh headlock he was now trapped in – that and the obviously soiled sheets mockingly keeping him decent. Of course he would be in cahoots with that despicable monster still pinned down between the captain's buckling knees; this  _had_  to be an elaborate prank used for the evaluation of Mikhail's drinking habits for sure, and if so, St. Germant would be the one to kindly give in soon enough and confess his guilt in the matter.

"Well, with all the noise you two were making, I think all of Kamazene knows by now." St. Germant's cheeks took on a red hue and he sniggered, bashfully busying himself with the little mechanical bird mascot on the shelf behind him after dutifully laying the tray down on the nightstand. Oh  _God_ , he had to be lying – Georik would at least take care of such a thing had they truly done-

"I thought of gagging him, but in his state, it would have been more trouble than it was worth." That knowing, blood-curdling smile on his lips, Georik lovingly clutched the captain's chin, giving it a firm squeeze before patting him on the cheek. It caught Mikhail off guard, leaving him in a tug-of-war between relishing the soft, warm touch and the horribly smug expression until St. Germant's squealed in endearment and made a little twirl, his hands still nestling the mechanical bird.

"You two are so sweet! I would love to join you if it were not for my work. Count me in next time," the inventor chirped, winking as he scurried away to barely miss the pillow that was soon thrown his way. It thumped against the hurriedly closed door, leaving Mikhail alone with the demon in his – no, St. Germant's – bed. With the pillow fell a sultry silence, one that came dangerously close to breaking as Georik did that  _infuriating_ flick of tongue that sometimes preceded his words – and Mikhail would have none of it.

"I'll kill him... and when I have killed him, I'll come back for you, Georik Zaberisk!" he hissed, his palm slick with cold sweat as he held the man silent with it, readying his left hand to choke the bastard if needed. He had been defiled, destroyed in the foulest way through that moth-eaten film he had once foolishly called friendship – brotherhood, even – and the things sacred to him were no longer. What would a notch or two on his bloodthirsty sword matter any longer in the face of this sin?

"You'd better start with me and take it easy, Captain. It was quite a rough night for you, and the medicine I administered has yet to reach its full effect." Even with his hands up in full submission, his Adam's apple bobbing in the palm of the captain's hand, Georik was nothing short of intimidating as his eyes drilled straight through his victim; they held him still for a count of too many until Mikhail released his grip and slapped his face. What would he know of rough, that spoiled brat assuming an honourable position of doing nothing beneficial to the kingdom – a doctor without a drop of blood on his hands? Oh, he would see just how well his medical skills served him with his head barely hanging there from a thin strip of skin after the captain's treatment.

Standing up to go after St. Germant was a cardinal mistake, and Mikhail learned it the hard way as a horrible pain shot through his spine, his back and below in blazing reverence of his already raging headache. His every bone and muscle screamed hallelujah and he cursed, sinking back to the merciful softness of the mattress.

"I told you so. Lie down and reflect on your silly antics a little longer, Mikhail. Doctor's orders."

The ashes of his conscience stirred with the embers of divine retribution as Mikhail Ramphet slowly turned his head and adopted his battle stance, catching that delightful rarity of surprise in the doctor's expression as he unleashed his divine wrath. He would make sure Doctor Zaberisk would not walk for a week, for several reasons of which each alone would be enough to earn him a first-class seat for a banquet in Hell.

Later that day, it was officially reported that Captain Ramphet had a riding accident, for which he would spend the day bed-ridden in the care of Doctor Zaberisk.

As for St. Germant, he was pleasantly occupied as well: he had, after all, succeeded in his attempt of making a fully functional recording bird, complete with image and sound of his last night's test run.


End file.
